


Heat of the Moment

by keeper0fthestars



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Elven Parties, Fluff and Smut, NSFW, Porn with Feelings, The Elven King, The Hobbit - Freeform, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, a elf who loves his wife, there's wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23320696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeper0fthestars/pseuds/keeper0fthestars
Summary: Sitting next to Thranduil at a grand banquet, your hand slides unnoticed under the table and is quietly undoing the laces below his waist. He shifts into your eager hand, sliding his eyes over to you, hungry, for only one thing.) and the only thing he wants to dine on is me. Only me. And I’m his. So why not give the king what he wants?
Relationships: Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Heat of the Moment

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you that recognize this story, it had been previously posted to my writing blog inklingforpace, which was deleted a few years ago, for personal reasons. I've decided to republish some of my work here as keeper0fthestars in the hope that, more new work will be here in the future. Thank you for reading.
> 
> This story was requested by sweetfairy on Tumblr: Thranduil and his wife fluffy/smutty, I imagine Thranduil being extremely gentle and passionate at the same time, just like the way he handles his sword.

The wide stone staircase echoes and I stop halfway down the stairs and quickly slip off my shoes wanting to move quickly and stay as quiet possible. I slink along the wall and peer around the corner into the kitchens, hoping to sneak across without being seen. I see the room is conveniently empty. Perfect timing. And it just so happens that I recognize a certain dark bottle sitting on the edge of the butcher’s block. I slip in, grab the heavy bottle and hurry down the corridor, shoes in one hand, and bottle in the other. My destination is a place free from foot traffic and interruptions if I don’t get caught. I have to stop myself from doing a little happy skip. He’ll be over the moon. 

**********

The enormous tables are spread lavishly with extravagant food the finest wine in the realm; another dozen casks have just been brought in and uncorked. The dull tinkling of pewter and fine silver is mingling with the hum of chatter and laughter in the open space of the great hall. He’s already addressed the long rows of occupants, bestowing his gratitude. The general state of this evening’s festivities are pleasant, there is not a sombre face in the room. With a final tilt of his head, his obligations have all but concluded for the evening. 

He settles himself down in the ornate chair to my right, robes folding over his crossed legs and he takes a fortifying drink from his cup. He turns to me with a silent question in his eyes. His unspoken words penetrate me in ways words could not. My warm approving smile is the only validation he seeks. His shoulders relax ever so slightly, one elbow resting on the wide banquet table in front of us, jewelled fingers toying with the stem of his goblet. His face casually rearranges itself back to its poised state before he looks away from me. Public functions have never been his favourite, but traditions must be kept and even though he’ll never verbalize his thoughts, I know he’s grateful the next one won’t be until late next season. 

“Can you believe it?” He scoffs under his breath, unable to keep a lid on his thoughts any longer. “They’ve already emptied last year’s harvest of ice wine, and it’s not yet reached midnight?” he would have rolled his eyes if he were certain no one would see. 

“Tonight is for them, not us. Be thankful they agreed to your alliance,” I chide through my own smile, lifting my own glass in silent acknowledgement to a noblewoman at the other end of the table from me. Most times, our little conversations require no words at all, but I’m quite enjoying this one tonight. “Are you honestly worried we won’t have more grapes and frost this season?” I tease, although I know he’s especially annoyed because, in truth, last year’s stash was one of the best. He sighs and reaches for another sip.

He needs a boost, something to take his mind off the stress of the last few days. A little pick me up. I could manage that. But it requires getting him out of here first. An idea weaves into my mind, as my eyes flutter over the room not really settling on any one person. He can thank me later. Multiple times if he wants. I swallow some wine to keep the frivolous spark from erupting. He doesn’t notice when I shift closer. I slowly release a calming breath, hoping he won’t sense the sudden shift in my disposition. 

My hand slides unnoticed under the thick brocade fabric hanging over the table and over the broad hump of his thigh. At my touch, his eyes shift down in my direction. He keeps his chin forward, but he’s not able to hide the twitch in the corner of his mouth. The smooth texture of his robe slips off his lap towards the floor, leaving just the snug fabric of his trousers. The thick band of muscle tenses deliciously under my palm. Someone seated on his other side has conveniently requested his attention and he almost reluctantly turns his head to answer. I smile, knowing the king will not hear a word this man has to say.

After a lingering minute, to ensure no one around us has noticed where my hand is, I decide he’s supplied enough attention to his acquaintance for the time being. He feels my hand nudge closer under the tablecloth, my fingers curving around the enticing warmth between his thighs. His lips part and his breath catch. Of course, it’s working, he’s enjoying my sudden preoccupation with him; in fact, I know he craves it. He takes a sip from his wine to hide the tiny smirk on his face. Just the mere thought of him tight and bulging beneath the table brings arousal tingling through my stomach and lower. Knowing how achingly beautiful he would be, all for me. Without drawing any extra attention to me, to us, he slowly uncrosses his legs, shifting himself, into my eager hand. Hungry, for only one thing. My hands prove me right. He is rigid, straining against the laces at his waist.

His eyes slide over to me, he can no longer keep them off me. Keeping my chin down, I raise my eyes to see that his have already darkened from their calm icy hue to divine liquid sapphire. I can feel his hunger for me to fill the entire room. Goosebumps rise under the sleeves of my gown and along with the crisscrossed lacing down my back. He knows that his stare combined with my overactive mind is all I need to erase every thought but him from my head, and it’s driving him mad.

He watches as I moisten my lips, stained the same colour as my crimson gown. His eyes caress appreciatively over the flush blooming under my skin, at the delicate strands of silver beads carefully threaded through my long braids and thick curls. Adorning my throat, three more strands shimmer against the warm flickering lighting of the room, and he focuses on the rare gemstone dangling on the end. His eyes stop there because that’s where the tops of my breasts are pressing against the low neckline of my bodice. His hand has formed a white-knuckled fist on the table and I know he’s imagining my hair tightly gripped inside it, wrapped around his knuckles. I know him well; I know it’s agony for him not to be touching me. I know that under that glorious mane of silken hair his head is filling with erotic images of our immediate future. And he’s unaware that my fingers are quietly undoing the laces below his tunic until I pull him free. His throat clenches and bobs and his nostrils flare, a reflex when the soft lavender of my scent hits him. His need for more of me beginning to make my thumb wet. It won’t be difficult at all to get him out of here. He watches my mouth, as I murmur my intention. My precise attention to his cock propels his resolve.

And with the mellifluous tones of his voice, my skin tingles, my legs turn liquid, all breath halted. The single Elvish word that dances from his lips and sets my skin on fire, say one thing: I want you. Nothing else. Just you. 

He wastes no time following me. How such an imposing presence can slip unnoticed from an event where he is the most important figure, never, never fails to astonish me. Even if some random passing request might have stopped him for a second, nothing would have derailed his short path down the ancient narrow stairs, passed the kitchens, to this small, conveniently vacated cellar room. It was true; the walls have been emptied of the King’s prized batch. My shoes slip from my fingers and fall quietly to the floor, and I carefully place the bottle on the floor against the wall. I must remember to thank the cooks for their good judgment in serving the ice wine and indirectly adding another place in our property to the list of spaces where he’d not be able to return without thinking of me. The thought nearly buckles my knees in anticipation.

The hushed swoosh of his robe as he ducks through the doorway, footsteps silent. His charged presence behind me in the dim narrow space ignites the air. I hear the latch click sound of the lock echo in the low ceilinged room. He finds me in the shadows, his mouth and body blindly making eager contact with mine. Like he would have preferred to have physically delivered me here with his own two hands. One hand presses languidly into the slight curve of my dress at the bottom of my spine. I cradle the chiselled angles of his jaw, and then weave my fingers through the platinum sea of his hair, my mind swimming with his warm scent. Rich sandalwood unmistakably like autumn, luxuriant and earthy. Intoxicating. Like my husband is the sole reason the Greenwood is as fragrant as it is. 

A finger curls around a lock of my hair winding it once, twice around, before bringing it to his nose. His eyes close. I love being his obsession. I love being irresistible to him. 

“Meleth nin,” he whispers. “Always scheming to have me.”  
“Can you blame me?” I grin.

Lightly pressing his hand on the side of my neck, feeding off the rhythm of my blood, his thumb lifting my chin, making my entire being melt and flow like a candle under a flame. He bends, covering my clavicle with his mouth and then lower, his deep hum of appreciation dances along my nerves and my breathing stops again. I need him against me, inside me. All over me. All of him.

My hands slide inside his robe and under his tunic to find the laces still loosened and the solid heat of him barely fits into both my hands. The flood of sensation to his groin briefly chokes off his air supply. 

His answering sigh and groan are exquisite, as I reacquaint myself. The hollow at the bottom of his throat is my favourite place to settle my mouth, there or just underneath his jaw.

Even with the door closed we hear the continuous preparations of food from down the corridor. A few distinct voices, laughing, bickering, teasing. Check the crock behind the wall… Not that one; use the butter… hand me the sharp one? The one with the wooden handle. Someone passes by the door carrying something heavy, possibly a platter or another cask of spirits judging by the chinks of light through the bottom of the door and I know he’s already calculated how many precious minutes he’ll have before they realize he’s gone. 

A few expert tugs with his confident fingers and the silk cords fastening my bodice are loosened, one shoulder bared, then the other. The heavy velvet of my gown slides down taking my gauzy undergarments with it, softly catching on two pebble hard places he is eager to make wet before it falls to the polished stone floor with barely a perceptible wisp. 

He’s occupying my mouth once again, sweeping his tongue, teasing me. His hand slips between my legs, while his voice takes on the demanding tone I love so much. 

Two greedy hands roam down over the goosebumps down my backside and curl around my thighs, then my feet leave the floor as I am effortlessly lifted into his arms, my legs firmly placed on either side of his hips. Two broad palms leaving imprints that cover all the way across to the other side. My overheated bare skin melts against the taut satin covering his solid frame. My breath in ragged gasps I swallow the sweet taste of his wine, my feverish mouth now raised to his level. He slides the weight of me along his body, a deep gasp and he aligns himself to the liquid between my legs, rocking my hips to a hurried rhythm against every throbbing nerve ending in his body. My whimper against his lips has him groaning with hunger. He is impatient. But so am I.

I don’t realize he has taken a few steps until I feel the smooth shale at my back. He perches me at hip height on a wide ledged alcove, and in a fury of impatient kisses and wandering hands, his perfectly tailored tunic joins my dress on the floor. His boots stay fastened, only bringing his trousers down enough for me. My hands have mastered the grooves and valleys of his body with the intrinsic knowledge that only I possess and I curse the lack of light because I don’t get to fully appreciate the way his soft hair cascades over his ivory skin, caressing his sculpted shoulders and chest. 

His dark silhouette crowds me, surrounds me, the slow drag of his tongue hot and wet on my abdomen, before crawling downwards to the soft sensitive flesh on the insides of my thighs, while his hands search and tease and circle. Sometimes, he drinks from me slowly, reverently, as if it were the cup from the axis from which the world revolves around. This was not one of those times. I try to concentrate on his play but his searing mouth to my center coupled with precise swipes of his fingers engulfs me in flames. In a tumble of gasps and mindless syllables, I quickly lose myself, writhing, wobbling, clutching his hair. He holds me firmly to his mouth taking what he wants, rapidly bringing my release to the surface. My brain thinks to say don’t stop, but all that comes out in my own tortured voice is his name, as I shudder violently.

I do not recall when he lifted me back up, but I do remember how I fit over his hips like they were made for me. At his urgent gasping demand, my heels dig into his spine, as my behind knocks against another wall in this cellar room. His arms tighten behind me, arching my back and I am again drawn into his rippling depths, to the wholeness he craves within me. 

And I know he’ll not be able to recall where he clutched or pushed, he moves with such abandon, his need for me beyond his capacity to control. His teeth raking at my neck renders me boneless. His breath is hot and thick, chest heaving, slick with sweat, and I am no longer able to discern between his hoarse sounds of pain or pleasure. He grips my hips and yanks me down harder like he can’t bury himself deep enough. Skillfully he’s driving me to the brink again, each powerful thrust like a scorching flash behind my eyes, devouring my reality. The broken sound he makes as his world collapses pulls me over the edge with him. It is a dizzying rush, consuming us both. 

When everything stills, his heart thumps erratically along with mine, his body trembling. Still pinned flat against the wall, I bask in the heavy sensation of his forehead sagging on my shoulder and I’m unwilling to free myself from where I cling to his body. With the back of his fingertips, he smooths a damp curl from my forehead. He places gentle kisses on me, still groaning softly with each breath, his honeyed voice teasing me about my bold tactics at our table. I smile against his temple, remembering our exchange and also the bottle I’d procured from the kitchens. I decide now is a good time for a sample from the king’s finest selection. “When you see what I found, you’ll not want to go back up.” 

And I’m right.


End file.
